Cockblocked
by Hoodoo
Summary: Living with Sherlock Holmes has its pros and cons. This night for John definitely falls into the "negative" category. Rated for blasphemy, swearing, and adult situations.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: no recognizable characters are mine. Rated for blasphemy, swearing, and adult situations.

Notes: Poor John.

Enjoy!

* * *

It wasn't often John brought someone home.

He didn't get many opportunities to meet women. He was usually too busy with work and the maelstrom living with the "Consulting Detective" could be, and after the disastrous first date with Sarah from the clinic, she barely even spoke to him. Happily, she kept everything professional and never mentioned that horrid night.

But tonight he'd gone to the pub with a few colleagues. Sarah was there, at the end of the table, but she ignored him and he found it easy to ignore her when a petite phlebotomist insisted on keeping his attention. She seemed more interested in him than his blog and subsequent association with Mr. Sherlock Holmes. She also laughed easily and touched his arm, and as the evening wore on her touches lingered longer and twice she slid her fingers down his chest.

He wasn't drunk, not really, just feeling good and suddenly horny and even more suddenly daring, and he invited her back to the flat.

She agreed.

With an arm around her both for support and to lay claim, John took her outside and hailed a cab.

They shared their first fumbly kiss in the back seat, and that sudden horniness bloomed to full on rut. She pulled herself over him to kiss him more deeply and his hands slipped up her shirt to encounter the latch and hook of her bra. That was a little more involved than his fingers could handle tipsy and in the dark of a taxi, so he settled for cupping her breasts. She seemed appreciative.

Then they were at home. The steps from vehicle to door were slowed by groping but the chill night air helped clear his head a bit. John didn't have much difficulty getting the key in the lock and getting her inside quietly.

Sherlock was gone. John half remembered that detail; the detective blitzed out of the flat an hour before John had left for his own evening out, muttering something about bridges and the Fool card from the Tarot.

But Mrs. Hudson was still here, so it was prudent and polite to try and be quiet. With a minimum of giggling and stumbling they made their way up to John's bedroom. He'd bypassed the main living quarters without asking if she'd like another drink or a coffee or to sit or something; he couldn't recall if that leg Sherlock had swaddled in cling wrap was still on the chair in the kitchen and didn't want to bring the evening to a screeching halt while trying to explain it.

His insistence of going straight to the bedroom was met with more giggles, a faked, "Aren't you a cheeky bastard?" reluctance, and absolutely no resistance.

Still, they held back a bit: feeling each other up in the back of a cab hadn't necessarily meant that they'd end up in bed together, but now actually in the presence of a bed they both hesitated a moment.

John wondered if it was best to leave the light on or if that were odd; he couldn't decide if his desire to be able to see her naked overrode the reluctance to be seen naked himself.

When she stripped out of her shirt and that fiendish bra, the decision was made.

He pulled her down on top of him on the bed, and suddenly both of them were wearing too much clothing. Buttons, zippers, and shoes were offensive barriers that were undone and kicked away as quickly as possible, and pants and shirts were tossed unceremoniously to the floor.

In very little time, he and she were naked, kissing exposed flesh, rolling over each other in half-hearted attempts at dominance, and not talking because doing was so very much more important.

At the back of his mind John tried to recollect if he had a condom handy. He'd ended up on top, holding himself up on his knees between her thighs. He didn't want to stop but knew he should; she didn't make his trying to be responsible any easier by urging him forward with eager moans and grasping his ass.

It'd been so long since he'd been laid. He wanted to be safe, wanted it to last, and wanted to go as quickly as possible all at the same time.

Just as he started to give in, protection be damned, her fingernails dug sharply into his skin and she let out an awful half-yelp. In the next second she'd scooted up and out from under him, flailing for the sheets.

"What?" John asked stupidly. He looked over his shoulder and jumped too.

Sherlock sat at the end of the bed.


	2. Chapter 2

"Jesus Christ!" John cried.

Automatically he reached for something to cover himself with as well, but Sherlock was sitting on the blanket that had been kicked to the edge of the bed and the sheets were completely hijacked; it was obvious she wasn't going to relinquish them.

John gave up trying to be decent and spit, "What _the fuck_ are you doing?"

Sherlock raised one eye brow and said, "If I were feeling like pointing out the irony, I'd ask you the same thing."

John grit his teeth. "Get out. Get OUT."

"John, you know I wouldn't intrude unless it was of dire importance—"

"You always intrude!" he interrupted. "You have no sense of personal space or of other people's privacy—"

"—and I need your help," Sherlock continued as if John hadn't spoken. "We need to go to the Tower Bridge and the Millennium Bridge. Oh, and Knightsbridge too—he thought he was being so clever with that, using the same puns as in Gaiman's _Neverwhere_, but he hadn't considered I'd be familiar with the Rider-Waite tarot deck—"

"Sherlock, _please," _John pleaded in annoyance.

"What?" the detective asked, as if slighted.

John sighed heavily and gave him an exasperated glare. Sherlock studied him a second with furrowed brows, then glanced over his friend's shoulder at the woman still gaping on the far side of the bed.

"Ah . . ."

"Yes, _ah,"_ John repeated, full of venom.

The woman John brought home finally found her voice. "Y-you're Sherlock Holmes!" she croaked.

Sherlock barely batted an eye. "Yes."

John sighed again and rubbed his eyes hard enough with the palms of his hands to see bright flashes of light behind his lids.

"He's _leaving,"_ John said forcefully.

"John, I need you to—" Sherlock started.

"No!" said John.

_"I'm_ leaving," she said at the same time.

"What?" both men asked.

"I'm leaving," she repeated. Over John's protests she loudly continued, "Obviously you're needed elsewhere. I'd heard . . . well, I never really read your blog. Not much of it, anyway. I never thought all those stories that go flying around the clinic were true, but now. Now I can see they _aren't _made up."

John was dumbfounded at her unexpected anger as well as what she was saying. "What are you talking about? I don't understand—"

"Oh, really? About how you and Mr. Sherlock Holmes have this odd relationship and do everything together. About how you get involved in these crazy things, about how people around you get threatened and endangered, and, and . . ."

So much for Sarah keeping her mouth shut, John thought bitterly, and then, so much for dating anyone from the clinic now, before trying to insist, "Wait, wait—we're not _together_, not like that! I'm not going with him, you heard me tell him to get the hell out—"

She shook her head resolutely and got out of the bed, pulling the sheet with her. For once, the one damn time John needed him to back him up, Sherlock kept _his_ mouth shut, and even demurely turned away as she gathered her clothing angrily and got dressed.

She stomped out of the room, spitting over her shoulder, "I'll show myself out, thanks. Have a good evening, Dr. Watson."

And she was gone.

John bit his lip with enough force it almost bled. He looked over to Sherlock, who hadn't moved.

"You can be a real prick, you know?"

Again Sherlock looked surprised and affronted. "She wasn't right for you."

"Really? What the hell do you even mean? She was nice, we had a good time—would have a better time, if you hadn't—"

Sherlock scoffed.

"Just because you don't have human feelings doesn't mean the rest of us don't," John snarled. "One-night stands aren't uncommon! Sometimes it's okay to just be with another person—"

"That's not you," Sherlock insisted.

"It could have been more than that!"

"Oh? What was her name, again?"

"Her name is . . . her name was . . ."

For the life of him, he drew a blank. John caught a glimpse of that superiority that graced Sherlock's face so easily and saw red.

"Her name was Sarah!"

"Sarah? The same name of the other woman you dated from the clinic. Interesting."

"It's a common name!" John insisted, even though he wasn't sure. He knew Sherlock could tell his uncertainty, and that made it worse.

"You're not the kind of man who is comfortable with one-night stands," Sherlock told him quietly. John blinked. "You'd feel guilty in the morning, and even though it was plain that she wasn't the type of woman you could have a long term relationship with, you'd feel obligated to see her again and again.

"I didn't mean to interrupt your evening, but in the end, it's probably for the best."

That red haze that filtered through John's vision faded slightly. Fuck Sherlock Holmes and his sociopathic, oblivious, selfishness! Fuck Sherlock Holmes for never having any couth!

Fuck Sherlock Holmes most of all for being so fucking right.

"So. You'll need more clothing than that," Sherlock said brightly, as if they'd just a pleasant chat over coffee, "there's a chill in the air! I expect to find the Tower card of the Major Arcana at the Tower Bridge, and World card at the Millennium. Knightsbridge, _Knightsbridge_ will be the true hunt—"

John sighed and fished around for his pants. It was a difficult pill to swallow, admitting that Sherlock knew him so well and saved him hardship in the long run. And it was the most frustrating way in the world to demonstrate friendship, but in the end, it was Sherlock's way.

_fin._


End file.
